<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I wanna be loved by you by Chocolate_Almond</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441972">I wanna be loved by you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolate_Almond/pseuds/Chocolate_Almond'>Chocolate_Almond</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Gore, Dark, Enemy Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partners in Crime, Serial Killers, Slang, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:08:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolate_Almond/pseuds/Chocolate_Almond</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“How about you tell us what word you’d use to describe yourself concerning your job? If not dollmaker, of course! Just shoot the first word that pops into that smart little head of yours!”</p><p>Despite the uneasiness, and somewhere among the cries of warning and the ringing alarms in my brain, the word comes to me as if I had answered that very question a thousand times before. With a tight-lipped smile that heavily clashed with that wide grin of his, I replied.</p><p>“I’m an <i>artist</i>.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Character(s), Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>85</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I wanna be loved by you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>WARNINGS:</b> slightly explicit decriptions of torture and some of those gross but natural things bodies do when exposed to fear or shock. This won't be a soft fic, I'm afraid, so reader's discretion is heavily advised!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“GRUESOME SCENE FOUND IN THE OUTSKIRTS OF NEW ORLEANS</em>
</p><p>
  <em>On the morning of January the 23<sup>rd</sup> a new murder case was opened with the finding of a body in the fields surrounding the city of La Nouvelle-Orléans. The victim, this time a middle-aged female whose identity has yet to be revealed by post-mortem specialists, appeared unrecognizable amid withered weeds and soil.”</em>
</p><p>            The dark hallways blindly carried the unpleasant scent of burnt dust along with the muffled sobbing that came from the only source of light in the whole house. A door was slightly ajar, letting a thin stream of warm light and desperate pleas escape into the cold of the night.</p><p>            “P-Please,” she hiccups and gags through a rag dirtied with drool, snot and blood. The knowledge that not all of them belonged to her had bile scratching at her throat. “Please, let m-me go, I’m begging you. I didn’t do anything to you!”</p><p>            The stench is unbearable. Something rotted in this room not long ago. She knows that someone’s mouth before hers had been forced around the repulsive cloth that now kept her from screaming too loudly. She pushes herself to acknowledge, no matter how desperately she wishes to escape this reality, that her fate is going to be that of the several murder victims that have remarkably haunted New Orleans for months, maybe over a year now.</p><p>
  <em>“‘A terrible smell caught my attention,’ the farmer who came across the body told us. ‘I thought it was a dead, run over critter by the road, but instead I found that unfortunate soul.’”</em>
</p><p>            She was proud of her job, loved the ups and accepted the downs. One down was recognizing the horror in that field worker’s eyes. Oh, how absolutely relieved he had been that his son hadn’t gone to tend to their crops with him that morning. She had agreed. Such a grisly sight he had found, indeed. Bless her capacity to stomach things when it mattered.</p><p>            Perhaps it didn’t matter now, because the warm, slick vomit welling up threatened to drown her in her supine position, and her eyes stung with fresh tears when they settled on a sharp blade that shone in the yellow lighting. Too warm, too welcoming for her current predicament. It was a small knife, but smaller didn’t necessarily mean less deadly. If anything, and from what she had learnt during the brief introduction to medicine in her years as a journalism student, it meant more painful.</p><p>            The blade, something similar to a twisted and jagged scalpel, was held between gloved fingers for a couple of seconds, maybe to be inspected by her kidnapper, maybe to frighten her further. Well, they most certainly succeeded in the latter. Satisfied with her reaction, yet seemingly not with the tool, that person returned their focus to the newspaper in their hand.</p><p>            She was proud of her job as a journalist. She lived for the ups and would die for its most unfortunate down. Her dear mother had told her, time and time again, that working in the world of media required curious folks. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she often pointed out.</p><p>            “Oh, but satisfaction brought it back,” she’d playfully, jokingly, stupidly reply to her mother, dismissing the actual and very real facts of the world she was getting herself into.</p><p>
  <em>“The lack of recent missing reports adds to the difficulty regarding the recognition of the victim, yet the inferno that she went through appears to be a different modus operandi to that of the infamous Tueur de La Nouvelle-Orléans. This would either mean that our most fearsome criminal has become dreadfully creative with his murders or we have another killer on the loose.”</em>
</p><p>            She wondered how long it would take anyone to notice that she was gone. Her family was far, far away from her, back in Lyon, expecting bits of news from her that could slip into their mail with months of difference between a letter and the one before that. Moreover, she hadn’t found someone to settle down with during her stay in Louisiana. No one would really miss her here, and even if her workmates did, only God above knows just how much of her would remain after this psychopath was done with her. At least, how much that could hint to her identity.</p><p>            A whimper left her lips, and her legs shook wildly despite the bindings keeping them secured to a cold table akin to those used by physicians. Her face burned so hot that that the warm tears running down her cheeks felt almost cool. Perspiration dampened her skin, and she forced herself to swallow down the bitter barf before trying to find her voice again.</p><p>            “I won’t say anything, I-I swear I’ll leave the city- no!” A sob rocked her body with such force that it made the table shake with her spasm. The kidnapper, who stood several feet away from her, in front of a wide desk full of objects that she could not fully make out, turned around to regard her with a hard glare. Their smile was clashing and horrifying, but fear and desperation seemed to cloud the frightened woman’s better judgment, who could do naught but rant on. “I-I’ll leave America and never come back. J-Just, oh my G-God, let me go-!”</p><p>            “Aren’t you talkative despite the gag?” Reprimanded the criminal while they slapped the newspaper in their hand against the desk, making their victim cry out with a start. “I was getting to your description of my latest masterpiece…”</p><p>            They hummed, eyes skipping across the ink on the rumpled page, with the journalist who drew it up providing the occasional sob, sniff, gag or plea. It all became white noise, pleasant, after a while.</p><p>            “Not as descriptive as I’d have expected, considering the tendency towards poetry in your articles. I guess it does get the point across, though.” The sound of heels clicking against sturdy wood put the restrained woman on high alert, watching her kidnapper approach her slowly, revealing more of their appearance as they did. More of luscious hair, satin attire and eyes brightened with interest above her paralyzed body. “Because I know that you are aware of what I’m going to do to you, aren’t you?”</p><p>            Whatever response she had in store for the devil who had her at their mercy was replaced with a yelp when thin fingers found a firm grasp on a handful of the victim’s long, chocolate locks. It was greasy to the touch, and terribly knotted from the trashing that she only recently ceased to perform, but undoubtedly beautiful when properly taken care of.</p><p>            “Oh, so very pretty…”</p><p>            At this point, she thought that whoever came up with the concept of tears eventually drying up could eat her shoes, because the closeness and smile on the aggressor’s face had the floodgates running harder than before, harder than ever before. The grip on her hair tightened to the point of numbing pain right before-</p><p>
  <em>            -snip.</em>
</p><p>            The tension was gone, and it didn’t take her long to realize that so was that handful of hair. Her brain processed each clipping sound slowly and utterly horrified. A confused, yet equally terrified wail hacked its way out of the journalist’s dry throat.</p><p>
  <em>            Snip. Snip, snip. Snip.</em>
</p><p>            The woman cried silently and noisily, but always still as she helplessly felt her hair being cut and shaved with practiced care and a gentleness unfit for this situation, until she could no longer feel the familiar weight of her mane when she turned her head, trying to track the movements of the murderer who once again slipped away from the light.</p><p>            “You are such a beautiful woman, Fran- can I call you Fran? Yes, I think I will. I just couldn’t not picture you in my collection, you see.” The steps now sounded slightly muffled due to the rain of hair that had been swept off the table and onto the floorboards, but amplified in the victim’s ears, along with every sound whose source was her aggressor. Whenever they spoke, a flinch of her own would ensue. “Have you ever interviewed an artist?”</p><p>            Confused, quite not knowing whether that was an actual question that was to be answered, or simply the introduction before their next terrible revelation, she stayed quiet a couple of seconds before an annoyed ‘tsk’ had her stuttering an answer through the gag.</p><p>            “I h-have…” It was true. The cultural boom gave her many opportunities to talk to and write about rising stars, perhaps not the most notorious ones out there, but still renowned enough to help her build a reputation in her field. A good one. That was hard to come by.</p><p>            “Then you must have already heard of how beautifully unorganized art is. Artists go through constant struggles, don’t we?” As they once again appeared closer, the woman on the table felt her heart skip a couple of beats at the sight of pliers. They looked heavy, and were dotted with coppery rust, or at least she believed it was rust. She wished that her heart had stopped for good, instead of resuming its beating with the enthusiasm of a marathon runner yards away from winning the race. She bit into the cloth and trashed around. “Now, don’t misbehave. Art requires… sacrifices.”</p><p>            Yanking the gag away from her mouth, the murderer smiled wildly at the woman before brushing the pliers across her lips, nipping the lower one between its jaws and tugging teasingly. A bead of thick drool rolled down the corner of her stretched mouth, mixing with tears, and a yelp escaped her when the pliers released the tender, swollen flesh.</p><p>            A sudden loud metallic thud made the table rattle jarringly. Then another. And another after that. Every slam of her head against the heavy surface beneath her meant one step closer to the end of this nightmare. The person above her watched, initially with a glint of disbelief in their eyes which slowly morphed into amusement. After a few strikes, the stain of blood on the table where her head kept making contact had grown alarmingly large. With a mind mushy from the beating, the journalist barely noticed the pliers taking a hold of her nose until they tugged with enough strength to help her register pain somewhere else than the back of her head.</p><p>            “Oh, dear, that’s not the way this is going to finish.” They tut slowly, reveling in her gasping breaths before letting go of the cartilage. “Why would you want this to be over so soon?”</p><p>            Her lips were suddenly forced apart by gloved fingers, and the pliers were carefully sneaked into her mouth. She gagged around the tool, tasting two different kinds of metal on her tongue. Her throbbing head only worsened with the spike of her pulse, and she became hyperaware of everything that surrounded her, from the sick individual to the lighting that somehow became brighter, bothersome almost.</p><p>            The jaws accommodated around one of her front teeth, testing the state of the tiny bone. The sick smile on their face hinted that they were satisfied with what they saw and felt.</p><p>            “N-No… Please…”</p><p>            Twisting their wrist slightly to improve their grip on the tool, they ignored the cracked sound of her most desperate plea so far…</p><p>            “After all…”</p><p>            …and jerked their arm backwards, effortlessly bringing a pearly piece and a piercing screech of agony from their victim’s mouth.</p><p>            “…we’ve only just started.”</p><p>*****</p><p>
  <em> “I’m not one of the greedy kind</em>
</p><p>
  <em>All of my wants are simple</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know what’s on my mind.”</em>
</p><p>            The slow tune drowns the studio in a gentle atmosphere. It’s already quite the cozy place, the sepia and beige mixture pleasant to the sight. There are several framed newspaper articles, most of which serve as proof of <em>Fais-do-do!</em>’s success. Tulip-shaped lamps are screwed into the walls, giving off a candid lighting when the darkness outside wouldn’t let you see your hand in front of your face. The moon is high and full, although slightly covered by fleeting clouds. It had been a rainy January day, and the soft hum of thunder still rumbled in the distance.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m not resting until I find</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What would make your eyes glisten with joy</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now listen, big boy.”</em>
</p><p>            The singer’s honeyed voice never once failed to transmit the sweetness that her round features promised, swaying her body to the rhythm and acting coquettish despite knowing that no one but the people within these walls would witness such endearing body language. It was mesmerizing. Hypnotic, despite the slight pain that blossomed on my neck from keeping my head turned to the right. The armchair where I sit is plush and comfortable, yet so heavy that I wouldn’t be able to drag it around to watch better. Nor would I want the noise to disturb the song.</p><p>            The radio show’s host seemed much more comfortable in this regard; his old swivel chair might look worn out and hardened from use, but it seems infinitely better when it comes to avoiding an unnecessary case of stiff neck.</p><p>
  <em>“I wanna be loved by you, just you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody else but you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wanna be loved by you, alone!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Boop-boop-a-doop!”</em>
</p><p>            My focus slowly shifts from the wheels of that chair to the one leisurely seated on it. Alastor McCarthy, the notorious host of <em>Fais-do-do!</em>, one of Louisiana’s most popular radio shows.</p><p>
  <em>“I wanna be kissed by you, just you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody else but you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wanna be kissed by you, alone!”</em>
</p><p>            The man seemed to have built an empire from a reel of wires and an old microphone. To say that he intrigues me would be an understatement, if the way I curiously sneak glances at him is anything to go by, but unfortunately I’m not sitting next to him during his show to ask him about how he climbed to the top.</p><p>            He could very well be a rich mama’s boy. It isn’t hard to imagine when he appears so neat and proper. I notice the gleam on his leather Oxfords, the lack of wrinkles on the endless length of his maroon slacks, and the thin beaver vest that adjusts to his lithe torso like a glove. I’d bet my most treasured works on guessing that his outfit had been meticulously tailored down to its tiniest detail.</p><p>            When I finally bring my eyes to his face, I find that wide smile directed at the performance. Not once had it faltered since I walked into his humble abode. He had greeted and ushered me inside of his house-also-studio with a gentlemanly cheerfulness that I had yet to find in another human being. He talked nonstop and laughed even more. I barely paid attention, however, curiously looking at the décor of his house.</p><p>            It was a three-story building with quite the regular façade, even though everyone seemed to know who this house belonged to. The lowest floor served as a living space with the same colorful familiarity that his studio offered. A wide living room with a pristine piano pressed against the furthest wall. The door that led to the kitchen showed that it was nothing short of impressive itself. I couldn’t inspect any further, however. I wasn’t here to get a tour of the host’s house either, so the details remained quite scarce. The one thing that stuck to me throughout the evening I was spending in this house was the several deer heads that seemed to look down on me as I walked past them and upstairs, towards the second floor: his studio. The middle floor still remains a mystery, as does most of the host’s own persona.</p><p>            Alastor is a hunter, I assume. Either that or he has a rustic, cabin-in-the-woods kind of taste regarding interior design. I glance at his arms after they suddenly shifted to adjust the left cuff of his white shirt before watching them cross against his chest once again. They’re gangly, yet he always moves them with that same elegance he carries himself with. With a body so thin and long it’s difficult to believe he would stand the recoil of a shotgun. Perhaps the hunting trophies were part of the family heritage, but the picture of Alastor actually being able to handle a gun and kill in cold blood… I freeze mid-shudder when I feel squinted, garnet eyes on me.</p><p>
  <em>“Daddle-at-dat-dat-dum, I couldn’t aspire</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To anything higher</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Than, filled with desire</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To make you my own</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bup-bum, butle-doodle-dum-bum!”</em>
</p><p>            I turn to regard him, which in turn causes his smile to grow slightly while his head tilts to the side a bit, as if speechlessly asking me how I am doing. I return a nod of courtesy and a smile of my own, admittedly feeling that I wouldn’t particularly wish to be anywhere else at the moment. After all, he has been nothing if not kind and chivalrous.</p><p>            I am very comfortable indeed. And that is exactly the reason why, deep down, that charming smile seems to have <em>‘watch out’</em> written all over it.</p><p>            Alastor reaches a hand towards me and taps the arm of my seat with a long finger. I stare at his hand, a look of puzzlement on my face. Oh, but his nails were definitely pretty and neatly clipped, indeed…</p><p>
  <em>“I wanna be loved by you, just you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody else but you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wanna be loved by you, a-lup-a-dup-a-dup-a-dup!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Boop-boop-a-doop!”</em>
</p><p>            It takes me the last stanza of the song to realize that he was silently telling me to get ready to go on air, because when the last note hits, Alastor is pressing a couple of the buttons on the strange wired machine on his desk, placing his head-phones on and motioning at me to do the same. A roar of pre-recorded applause and cheers drowns my ability to hear anything else for the following second or two.</p><p>            “That was absolutely delightful! Helen Kane with <em>‘I wanna be loved by you’</em>, folks! We had the chance of having our darling ‘Boop’ girl with us on this fine January the 27<sup>th</sup> evening!” I had almost forgotten how obnoxious his voice could be, but he was swift to remind me when he nearly devoured the microphone in front of him with how close he was talking into it. I liked his enthusiasm, the raw passion coming from sheer love towards his job. “Rainy, but we can’t allow this weather to <em>dampen</em> our mood! Hahahaha!”</p><p>            I hope the pre-recorded laughing track silenced my barely contained scoff. That was absolutely <em>terrible</em>. A small smile of my own slipped before I notice his eyes on me once again.</p><p>            “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m thrilled to be introducing our next guest! Not being native to Louisiana never stopped her from making quite the name for herself in an outstandingly brief period of time! Our foreigner sweetheart-”</p><p>            “Oh, you flatterer,” I commented softly, and Alastor's curved smile started to resemble a smirk rather than his usual cheery grin. He pressed another button and the laughing track went off again, confirming that people had already heard me just fine.</p><p>            He finished his brief speech by announcing my name the way a herald would introduce royalty, while also adding the cheering track, and its volume once again caught me off guard. “Now, please, tell us about the wonders you do for a living! Don’t let me take the spotlight, my dear!”</p><p>            I adjust the borrowed head-phones to rest more comfortably around my head and inspect the microphone for a couple of seconds. How close is too close? How far is too far? The look on my face must be openly confirming my lack of experience with this kind of devices, but if anything it earns me an encouraging nod from Alastor. Though warily, I lean in slightly, trying to ignore the proximity of his face and the never-ceasing smile adorning it.</p><p>            “Good evening, New Orleans! Well, I’m sure I look like a mess right now. I’m not quite accustomed to these radio show things, unlike your lovely host, Alastor.” Even though I feel that wasn’t a terrible way to start, I can’t help but start thinking of all the people who must be listening to my voice, however that sounds right now. Thinking of all the ears focused on my every word. Oh dear.</p><p>            Alastor seemed to notice my inner turmoil, however, and even though he stayed quiet for seconds that felt too endless to be just seconds, he eventually took the role of my saving grace.</p><p>            “Oh, flatterer yourself! No need to be stiff, dear! Relax that sweet face and enlighten us with an insight into your projects!”</p><p>            The more he speaks, the more certain I become that he’s a hollow shell. His words half-hearted yet sugarcoated with that natural charm in a way that makes them sound like the cusp of supportiveness. I’m sure I’m failing at concealing the slight disappointment on my face or the small glare I almost unconsciously sent his way. Ignoring his suggestions, my body strains, tenses up. The studio is quiet, no one but the host, the guest and the thousands of invisible listeners waiting for some kind of movement from their radios. I can feel my mind racing a mile a minute with explanations as to why he could be behaving like such a frivolous popinjay.</p><p>
  <em>He’s just another conceited jerk.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sure I’m bothering him by being here.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, he’s enjoying watching me struggle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He must not even know what struggling feels like.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why would he? He’s popular and charming.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m nothing to him. Dust. Less than dust.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s making fun of me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s belittling me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>YeS, hE'S bElitTLInG mE.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>…Calm down.</em>
</p><p>            …Then there’s absolute silence.</p><p>            I don’t know how long it has been since he spoke to me, or if he has tried to get my attention since. He probably has. Is he even capable of shutting his mouth for however long it has been? All I know is that when I return to my surroundings, Alastor has returned to the microphone, breaking the silence with no less enthusiasm than before.</p><p>            “Apologies, my dear folks! It’d appear that our sweetheart needs a second to collect her thoughts!” He laughs obnoxiously before turning to me. There is that damned smile and eyes that gleamed with curiosity. Perhaps amusement. “Everything’s just Jake, darling! While you get ready to shine, would you mind if I go over some news? Take your time! Anything to make you swell again!”</p><p>            Or to avoid a dent on his precious audience records. Bull. I smile humbly.</p><p>            “Sure. Thank you, Alastor. I’ll be fine in just a second.”</p><p>            “I certainly hope so! Y’all heard the dame, nothing to worry about!” His hands rummaged into the first drawer of his desk, pulling out a small pile of notes. “Except, sadly, there is! Authorities recommend being careful in the streets nowadays. And how! The identities of that last two victims have finally been confirmed. Mrs. Emma Collins and Miss Francine Mabille, garment store owner and journalist, respectively. Both of them were found in such short amount of time and sharing cause of death and signs of torture. It is suspected that there may be a new criminal among our crowds, I’m afraid.”</p><p>            Alastor notices my stare, returns it, and smiles wider than he should while talking about something like this. As if for a second his charming façade crumbled, giving way to something darker, more twisted. It’s unsettling, but familiar at the same time.</p><p>            “Tell me, darling,” he trailed off, grabbing the bottle of water that was just within his reach to take a long gulp out of it. His eyes never left me, observing me through the clear lenses of his small, round spectacles. “How do you feel about people starting to call this killer the Dollmaker of New Orleans?”</p><p>            Creative? Not in the slightest. Not when it was the obvious alias to name the murderer. It was on every newspaper, a description of the bodies subtle enough to satisfy the demands of censorship. The essentials remained, though. Lips stitched shut and large buttons sewn onto their eyes. Both victims were missing several bones from their bodies, including all of their teeth, and were covered in stitches from head to toe, giving them the appearance of human-sized, grotesque dolls. Media liked to keep information accessible to most, so they left out details such as the infections and gangrene that unavoidably came with trying to play surgeon.</p><p>            “Because I make dolls for a living? No, not offended at all.” I laugh softly, waving my hand in a gesture of amusement. “Well, Al- can I call you Al?”</p><p>            “You most certainly can, my dear!”</p><p>            “I heard somewhere that you can speak French. I’d even dare say you’re of Cajun origin, even.” Alastor blinked, smile widening slightly.</p><p>            “Why, yes indeedy! On my mother’s side.” He seems to bounce slightly where he sits as he mentions his mother, a softness blossoming in his eyes. So, a mama’s boy alright. “Why would you bring that up?”</p><p>            “I was wondering if it bothers you that people started calling this other killer the Tueur de la Nouvelle-Orléans. Since you speak French or are Cajun, you know?”</p><p>            He’s visibly taken aback. Alastor kept quiet for a second, smile broadening even more, squinted eyes opening in surprise and what seemed to be either delight or… danger. When the concept comes to my mind, I’m definitely sure it is danger what lurks in his reddish gaze. My lips tighten. He looks good with his mouth <em>shut</em>. Figuratively speaking.</p><p>            “<em>Touché</em>, my dear.” Alastor laughed along with that loud laughing record, and despite the wariness deep in my gut, I smirk openly about this childish victory. Sweet and satisfying. “Ain’t she quite the sassy belle? I’d dare say she’s ready to begin!”</p><p>            “Oh, I’m sure I am!” I concede as enthusiastically as I can manage, but truth be told I’m just looking forward to leaving the place. Leaving the burning feeling of menace behind. Even the darkness that has swallowed up the streets outside, even the idea of having to walk through shadows until the safety of my apartment, they both feel safer than having to stay close to Alastor right now. “Where to even start!”</p><p>            “Well, I know for a fact this can be overwhelming sometimes! You’re doing outstandingly for a first timer, sweetheart!” He praises, eyes fixated on me. Unblinking even. Feeling those irises that shine like fiery jewels even in such dim lighting inspecting me and my every move… The hair on my neck begins stand stiff as a shiver tingles underneath my skin. “We can begin with something simple. Something small.”</p><p>            His eyes narrow, still regarding me, as his finger rubs at his chin, deep in thought for appearances, but I can tell he’s buying time to try and see further into me. Oh, what is he seeking? Can he see through me the way I see through him?</p><p>            “How about you tell us what word you’d use to describe yourself concerning your job? If not dollmaker, of course! Just shoot the first word that pops into that smart little head of yours!”</p><p>            Despite the uneasiness, and somewhere among the cries of warning and the ringing alarms in my brain, the word comes to me as if I had answered that very question a thousand times before. With a tight-lipped smile that heavily clashed with that wide grin of his, I replied.</p><p>            “I’m an <em>artist</em>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I finally brought myself to post this! Been sitting in my drafts for ages, and I couldn't just abandon such an intereting concept! I hope you'll dearly enjoy this (yet another, I know) fic of the mascot of electro swing and nuts radio host, Alastor!</p><p>Well, historical inaccuracy will come in small things such as the beginning of the fic being set early into 1928 and <i>'I wanna be loved by you'</i> by Helen Kane was released later that year, but I'll try to be as accurate as possible.</p><p>Last but not least, I'd love to thank BambinaMio for coming up with Alistair McCarthy as Al's human name and not minding lending it! </p><p>Without further ado, have fun!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>